


In Bloom

by mijeli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Birthday, Cake, Community: kinkfest, Established Relationship, Food Sex, Gluttony, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-12
Updated: 2010-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mijeli/pseuds/mijeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Harry's birthday. He’s missed too many thereof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, this was a lot of fun! Warmest thanks go to my fantastic and inventive beta songquake.

Harry's hair is still wet from the shower when he enters the kitchen. He leans against the doorframe and watches Draco, who is sitting at the table, reading one of his ten thousand newspapers and nibbling at a croissant.

"Happy birthday," says Draco and looks up, smiling. "I thought you wouldn't be getting up at all today."

Harry shrugs and saunters into the room. His eyes fall to one giant, multi-coloured and very extensive building in the middle of the table. "'s this?"

"This, as I thought would be fairly obvious, is a birthday cake."

"I'm getting old," Harry murmurs, but his eyes are resting on the cake, glittering. In fact, thirty is no age for a wizard of his health, and the sugary monster looks positively regenerating. "Oh my god, this thing is huge."

Draco closes the newspaper and puts it on top of a ridiculously neat stack. "What did you think," he asks, "that I'd get you something mediocre?"

Harry wants to shoot forth a witty reply, but he can hardly take his eyes of the sweet. Eventually he does, holding out one hand for Draco and looking at him with what he believes is both a grateful and mischievous expression. "It's fucking great," he explains eloquently. Draco laughs and takes the hand.

They kiss, gently at first, their lips pliant and familiar against each other. Then Harry tangles one hand in Draco's hair and pulls, causing Draco’s mouth to open farther up to him. His breath is hot and humid, the taste known but never too known.

When they break apart, Draco remains pressed against Harry's body. "Happy birthday," he repeats, much lower now. Harry can feel Draco’s ribs and his heart hammering against them.

"Thank you," he replies, before ogling the cake again. "I don't know whether I can wait." Something flickers within him, something whose origin he cannot remember, as it is so woven through the years: possessiveness, desire, _greed_ towards that which he feels belongs to him, but remains impossibly out of reach.

It had been years, and birthdays, of want and hunger for something he couldn't have. Harry recalls every single one of Dudley's birthday parties as he recalls his own lack thereof — the amounts of fatty foods, piled upon the table and kitchen counter, glinting in the dull light of eco lamps. He remembers the mingled smells of sugar coating and fried bacon that didn't even fit, but in the surroundings of his mouth he imagined they fit better than anything in the world, and made it water.

Then Dudley would pierce the cake, stab it. His knife would part the buttery walls from each other, reveal their colours and consistency. Harry would imagine what they tasted like. At night, he’d dream of his taste buds blooming into an unknown breed of flowers.

"You don't have to," Draco murmurs. "Wait. It's yours and you can do with it whatever you want."

"Mhm." Harry likes the sound of that and steps up to the table. Draco has actually set it, in the nice, but simple tableware Harry likes best, and there a nicely sized knife prepared for the cake already lies. He picks it up.

The cake looks unreal: it’s obviously the reconstruction of a house, rectangular, each layer towering above the others with fine precision, and upon pale yellow icing a pattern of strawberries, red and vibrant. Encircled by curly white whipped cream, they stick out like presumptuous little hearts from their bone prison.

Harry stares and tries to take in the cake in all its calorie-heavy glory without drooling. He wants to jump into the body of this monstrosity of a house, bury his face in its creamy corridors and finally, eventually, drown himself in the disgustingly sweet—

"You like it?"

Harry turns to Draco, who looks worried. "Are you kidding? I'm thinking about how best to devour it whole."

Draco steps up behind him and wraps his arms around Harry's waist. "So long as you leave room for me," he whispers in his ear with a voice that is nothing if not suggestive. Harry swallows hard.

"Happy birthday to me," he says, grinning, and lifts the knife. His heart is pounding inexplicably fast as he lowers the blade to the soft surface of the top layer, drawing it down, and dissecting its perfection with ease.

Perhaps his imagination enhances the smell rising, first to his nose, then filling up his entire head. It is so sweet, so agonisingly sweet, and so ultimately his. Harry grins broadly, seeing his cousin and his uncle and his aunt watch him in disgust and horror as he pushes the knife deeper, with more urgency, finally parting the ground floor until the blade hits the tray. Every other possible smell retreats in honour of the sugary overload. His heart still hammering violently, Harry inhales deeply and almost sees time fly back, sees a little boy's empty hands reach out and dig into the bulk.

Then he feels something else pulsating, and notices he's half-hard in his pants.

"Draco," Harry croaks, "smells so good."

Draco leans closer and drops his chin to Harry's shoulder. "It does. Let's try it."

"Yes." Yes. There is nothing that could possibly be more urgent. Harry carelessly casts the knife aside and takes a chunk from the cake. It's soft enough in his fingers, he wants to cry out.

When he takes a bite, it's – _vanilla, fruit, a flower that’s bred in Eden_ – heaven, and he takes another and then two more to decrease the intensity. It's sweet enough to dissolve in the cave of his mouth. "Oh god," he murmurs, "so good."

Draco comes to stand beside him. "May I try?" he asks, ridiculously polite, and Harry rolls his eyes at him.

"You think I'm eating all of this alone?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

Me, neither, Harry thinks, exhilarated. "Go ahead."

Draco, however, doesn't look like he was about to do the work himself. He blinks at Harry—almost innocently—then opens his mouth. There's no way in hell Harry's sharing his own piece, which is so obviously the best, but he cuts off another one, smaller, and feeds it to Draco. It's still too big to fit into his mouth at once, and Draco has to messily bite off one side; it half sticks to Harry's fingers, half drops to the table.

"Sorry," Draco says, chewing. Then he closes his eyes and a smile of pure bliss appears on his face. Harry loves this smile; he does, with every fibre of his existence. He reaches out and wipes cream from Draco's lips.

"Wow, this is delicious."

Harry reaches for another piece and stuffs it into his mouth until his cheeks stretch. He wraps an arm around Draco's middle, pulls him closer. As he kisses Draco's throat, then his mouth, they're close enough to feel one another swallow.

Draco runs his hands down Harry's sides, nudges him with a thigh. "Someone's in the mood," he says, observantly. He tilts his head to the side, giving Harry more access to his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband of Harry's jeans.

Harry shifts against him, pressing his erection against Draco's soft crotch. He pulls back from the stretched white throat with a hum and lets Draco feed him another piece of cake.

All the while as it disappears into his mouth, he stares at Draco. What happens between them whenever their eyes meet hasn't changed a bit in twenty years. It still feels like their two substances, of whichever kind, were meshed when they shouldn't mesh; the touch electrifying, separation impossible. Harry swallows the cake and presses his lips against Draco's.

The taste is still sweet, but also heavy with lust and a fiery desire. He grinds his own strong hips against the skinny ones, and eventually Draco pushes back. For their tongues, it will forever be a battle — to get closer, even closer. The impossibility of invading each other's bodies through their mouths has yet to stop them from trying.

Harry feels something waking in Draco's pants and hums into him, presses him against the kitchen table. _Closer._ "Feels good."

With a gasp, Draco reaches back to protect the cake. "Let's not ruin it," he says, helplessly out of breath.

"Yes," Harry disagrees, " _let's_ ruin it. I'd like you in there."

"Oh yeah?" Draco smiles at him, amused.

"Yeah. So I can eat up both of you at once."

Draco rolls his eyes, but relaxes against the table. "Makes sense," he admits.

"I know." Harry looks at him, takes in his dishevelled hair and the flush on his cheeks. "Too bloody gorgeous," he comments, "why are you not naked?"

"Because you haven't undressed me yet?"

The fact that he's saying it in his Potter-you-imbecile voice undoes Harry more than he cares to admit. He grins and steps between Draco's legs, starting to unbutton his shirt. There's just no way he'll ever get tired of this, no matter how insistent the throbbing of his cock or voluptuous the taste on his tongue may be.

It's a sight as familiar as his own reflection: Draco Malfoy's pale torso, marred by a long white scar, lean enough to show off his ribcage. At the gentle touch of Harry's fingertips, Draco closes his eyes and sighs.

Harry casts aside the shirt and runs his hands over the body on display, traces neck, shoulders, flat chest and stomach until he reaches Draco's pants. The man shivers under his hands, and doesn't that turn Harry on like nothing else in the world.

Except, maybe, the taste of this wondrous cake.

He picks up another piece, this one huge enough to sag over his hand on all sides, just as Draco reaches for one more himself. Harry takes a bite from the proffered delicacy, which tastes so different, now that it’s mingled with generosity. He holds his piece out to Draco and watches him bite some off as well.

"Sit on the table."

Draco does as commanded and Harry pushes him back until he comes to lie flat on the hard surface.

"What are you doing?" Draco asks, amusement lightening his voice.

Harry hums before placing the cake on his belly. "Making you part of my sweet."

Highly unfittingly, Draco chuckles, which causes the cake to jump. Next, however, it's stuck to his skin. Harry opens the top button on Draco's pants, then his fly, and pushes the expensive black fabric down over his hipbones. They are jutting out sharply enough to cast a shadow, which makes the downy blond hair beneath his navel look all the softer.

Harry pulls out Draco's cock. It is half-hard and hot in his hand, and he squeezes.

"Harry," Draco murmurs, "it's your birthday." He lifts his head and, when that is too straining, rolls it to the side instead and gazes up from heavy-lidded eyes. Harry smiles and leans down on top of him. 

"That's why I'm unwrapping my gift."

Draco rolls his eyes. "That was so sleazy."

"Wasn’t it?" Harry kisses him, slow but insistent. Their mouths are wet against each other while their cocks brush and it's not enough contact, not even close, so Harry reaches down and unzips his jeans until there is skin on skin. Draco wraps his arms around Harry's neck, and Harry moans into his mouth.

Then he kisses a trail down, until he's back at Draco's crotch. He looks up, taking in the flush spreading on ivory skin.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful."

Draco winces as Harry smears the cake on his belly, down his happy trail and eventually, almost hesitantly, over his cock.

"Potter, you bloody fetishist. That's sticky."

Harry grins. "Oh god, I’m sure." He takes off his own shirt—why is he even still wearing it?—and gets on his knees between Draco's legs. "I'll make it up to you."

The taste is nothing less than overwhelming, and the first lick makes Harry want to come at the spot. On his tongue, there is the creamy consistency of cake, sweet and fruity and like a promise to a child that has stopped believing in promises. It mingles with the salty note of arousal, subtly, then more prominent as Harry's ministrations increase. Draco moans, fully hard now, but all Harry can focus on is the spongy feel and the whipped cream turning to liquid in the heat of his mouth.

" _Fuck_ ," Draco curses above him. Harry hums against his cock, then pulls back and rises to tear another piece of cake off the bakery monster. It looks mutilated and no longer imposing, but that does nothing to diminish his excitement.

"Are those supposed to be Gryffindor colours?" Harry asks in a sudden flash of notice.

Draco looks up at him, breathing heavily. "What if they are?"

"Then I'd say you're disgustingly sweet."

"Well, you started it. Who got me these green sheets for my birthday?"

Harry leans over to snatch a strawberry with his teeth before feeding it to Draco. "Just because you look so good on green." He licks the fruit's juice from the corner of Draco's mouth. "You look good on white, too."

They kiss again and Harry presses his neglected erection against Draco's thigh. As if on cue, Draco sits up, tangles one hand in Harry's hair while the other goes straight to his cock. Never breaking the kiss, he runs his thumb over the tip, then his index finger down the underside. Harry feels heat pool, whirl in his groin, a second heat, joining the other and creating a storm cloud of arousal. He pushes into Draco's fingers.

"What do you want me to do?" Draco asks, not once taking his eyes off Harry's. They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity.

Harry, at this blunt question, finds himself incapable of forming a coherent thought, let alone a phrase to sufficiently express what he wants. All he knows is that both his lover and his birthday cake are the most gorgeous things in the world, and he should feast on everything in reach of his hands before it would be taken from him.

He shakes. The sensations are adding up, quickly, stubbornly; he recalls a cupboard under the stairs and the sleep that wouldn't come because of his growling stomach. Sometimes, it happens that all the food in the world is not enough to satisfy and still the hunger and just make it stop.

Greedy fingers dig into the cake until Harry is holding another large chunk, which he lifts between their faces. He doesn't have to ask or explain, and least of all think about it: Draco is parting his lips, inviting Harry to feed him.

"God, I'm full."

"Hmm. So am I."

The cake is on his hands, on their tongues, on their chins and cheeks, then Harry grabs Draco’s face and it’s on Draco's temples too, gets in his hair. He has stopped complaining, busy pressing his palms against Harry's arse and pushing their cocks together, setting fire.

Harry groans loudly, obscenely. He knows how peculiar it will sound to his ears once he comes down, should he ever. It never matters while he’s there.

"More." He hums against the other's mouth. 

Now Draco is feeding him, shoving crumbling cake past his lips, down his throat, he doesn't even take his fingers back out but slides them along Harry's teeth as he chews. They are coated in spit and crumbs when Draco draws them back out. Harry grabs his hand and presses it against his throbbing cock, where Draco spreads the slickness of it all over his sensitive skin.

"Want you," Harry mutters, "want you so much." He takes more of the cake — by now nothing more than a sugary battlefield upon the formerly virginal tablecloth — and shoves it into Draco's mouth. Draco half chews, half sucks on Harry's fingers, running his tongue along the digits.

The simultaneous sensation of Draco's hand on his cock and mouth on his fingers is almost too much. Harry sags against him, buries his face in the curve of his milky white throat and starts sucking. His breath is ragged and raspy against the smoothness of this skin, but it doesn't actually matter, and then Draco makes one of his rare, unguarded sounds, and it causes Harry to shiver with indulgence and love altogether.

He licks Draco's ear, not quite able to pull back. The sweet taste won't leave his tongue. Draco's unbelievably soft hair is tickling his nose. "Need to fuck you now."

Draco nods, panting. He shifts until he can get off the table, his hands now firmly gripping Harry's hips. "Yes," he says, "yes."

Harry could cry as he pushes his hand into Draco's hair, along his collarbones and his nape, because it all feels both so strong and so fragile beneath his hands. He turns Draco around and presses against his back, aligns them until there is no air left between his own hard chest and Draco's sharp shoulder blades, and between his cock and the slim, flat cheeks of Draco's arse. He slides his prick down the crack, teasingly, playfully, then shudders from the sensation.

"Fuck."

Draco leans into him, pressed flush against Harry's body. His head drops back, stretching his throat’s length impossibly.

"I. . ." Cake. The never-ending supply of another world's richness. "Draco."

Harry doesn't know what he's trying to say, and there is no way Draco can tell, but anyway he nods and tilts his head even farther, so Harry can watch more of the cake disappear into his mouth and follow the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

Harry leans over him and takes another bite, then another, all the while fucking Draco's crack and trying to focus on both at once, but not at the same time. His mind fills up with the hyperbolic taste, stretches apart.

"Harry." The name comes out hoarsely.

Harry's mouth is still full, way too full, and once he’s swallowed, he shoves another piece of cake between his teeth and bites down with force. It is his, his alone, and all the power its absence ever implied vanishes with the settling of the calories in his too-full stomach, with its tense skin and the final defeat.

"Yes," he says and slips his sugar-coated fingers across Draco's cock, his balls, feels the icing stick to his sparse pubic hair before changing sides and pressing against his hole.

Draco's entrance is still tight, loosing up only slowly under Harry's fingers; he's not impatient, not anymore. He can feel the weight of the fatty food in his body, right above the piercing blaze in his groin, and he knows that Draco's body takes time, and that he's not going anywhere because he's his and they share, if the smear on their fingers and faces is anything to go by.

Then the man beneath him moans, pushes back, and Harry spies the promise.

He presses his face against the skin of Draco's nape, inhales his scent as he enters him. Sugar, shampoo. Sweat, and a nameless part that's become a name in Harry's mind long ago.

Slowly, carefully, Harry pushes himself inside and treasures every bit of it like the luxury in his mouth. Draco is breathing heavily, hands clawing, eventually finding Harry's hips and holding on. Harry knows he's in pain still. He reaches down to stroke him and hits his knuckles on the table; he doesn’t pay attention.

Now the fullness of his belly shifts, moves, as though it wants to find an even more perfect settlement — it merges with the other heat until they are one. Harry moans into Draco's hair, picks up speed and drives Draco against the table, where the remains of his birthday cake lie scattered like the ruins of a bombed out house.

" _Harry_ ," Draco shouts, slowly losing his control as they rock against the table. The cutlery clinks.

Harry knows, he really does. He's also going to come in a heartbeat.

Leaning on Draco with all his weight, he presses him against the table, presses him half into the cake there. The strawberries bleed into the tablecloth; Draco supports himself and his arms get covered up in an unfathomable mess of dough. When Harry reaches for his hand, he intertwines their fingers.

Harry feels it swell up again, the fullness inhabiting the place like it belonged here — it grabs him and pulls. The cocoon it has spun is white-consuming, like whipped cream, smells faintly of sugar and has just the right size to lock out the world. No one asked him to be part of theirs.

"I love you," Harry pants, and then comes, hard. His face is in Draco's hair and his hands clench down on skin and cake and tablecloth. As his orgasm is washing forcefully through him, Harry thinks he can taste the same bloody flowers that filled his mouth a lifetime ago; only now they leave traces he can swallow.

He distinctly notices Draco bringing himself off, shifting against the table. Harry nuzzles him and rocks with him until he feels his body tense then go limp, a switch he's observed uncountable times. Draco cries into the crook of his elbow: he’s always shy to share this moment of abandon.

"Draco," Harry says after a while, grinning into the skin of his partner’s sweaty white neck. "That was the best birthday cake in the world."

Slowly, Draco's shoulders move and he brings up one hand to dig it into Harry's hair.

"Of course. Nothing less would be acceptable."

"For me or for you?"

Draco pulls, playfully. "Does it matter?"

With tremendous effort, Harry lifts himself and takes Draco with him. He notices they are still both half-wearing their trousers and the sight entertains and embarrasses him equally. As Draco nearly stumbles over the piece of clothing around his ankles, he flushes.

"Can't do anything properly, can you?" he murmurs.

Harry merely grins and kicks off his jeans before taking Draco's face between his own rough hands. The seam between their clashing natures never ceases to amaze him — Harry often wonders how he and Draco made it work, are still making it work; but the bottom line is always that: it doesn't matter, they just do.

Now, Draco steps out of his trousers, too, the classy garment hopelessly soiled. "You only get to ruin my clothes because it's your birthday," he clarifies, but loses the fight against a smile. “And because I love you too, you big slob.”

Harry thumbs away a piece of cake from Draco's hairline, and the other man grimaces in disgust. "You killed my _hair_ , Potter."

"Stop whining, I'll wash it."

"Really?"

"Hell yeah. I need a bath anyway." Harry laughs, looking down at himself and immediately regretting it: he looks like a child swapped bodies with him, cake sticking to the hair on his chest and crotch, and colouring his skin; unfavourable to say the least. If only the day weren’t so bright; the dimness of their nights is much more forgiving.

In the meantime, Draco turns and eyes the wreckage. "Can't say I saw that coming when setting the table."

Harry smiles and leans in, wrapping his arms around Draco's neck and kissing his cheek. "I really. . . you know. Appreciate it."

"I guess I know," Draco replies with one of his more indulgent expressions. "I mean, I noticed." His fingers are warm and sticky on Harry’s skin, and he seems hesitant. “You know, I was serious about that house. In a not quite so damaged condition, that is.”

Casting a look at the remains of the cake home, Harry notices a need tugging that is both primal and new. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You think about it.”

He won’t have to; and there’s so much to this, so much more, which Harry will never put into words.

“I will,” he replies, quietly, and he’ll have to hope that Draco senses the importance of it all.

They remain standing like this, Harry combing through cake-dirtied hair and Draco — not quite painlessly — scratching the filth off his skin. Harry is aware of the mess they made, and of the fullness it caused in his stomach and in every other cell that needed filling. Like satisfaction has finally come home, he is sated, content and willing to let go.

He nudges Draco. "Bathroom?"

"Make sure I don't drown," says Draco as he tangles their fingers together. "I'm way too full to take a swim."

Harry laughs. "I'll watch out for you."

They make for the shower, feet luckily clean and safe, leaving behind a slaughtered kitchen. On the table, plainness and arrangement have hopelessly surrendered to the colourful lushness of chaos. 

It's a different memory now; one they have created anew. 

The smell of sugar coating and bakery grease lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of sex. Beneath the shower spray, the flower seeds come off.

 

////


End file.
